


October 2007

by areyoumiserableyet



Series: Occupy Love [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Marijuana, Mental Illness, Multi, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Pining, Poverty, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-18 09:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20637065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: The time Courfeyrac met the most beautiful boy in the world and Feuilly celebrated his 29th birthday.





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2007  
4 Years Before Occupy  
Courfeyrac and Feuilly

It was your typical, library meet-cute. Okay, well maybe not your typical meet-cute, but Courfeyrac liked to think it was charming and romantic just as he liked to think all his relationship exploits were charming and romantic. He was there when Courfeyrac walked into the Bobst - the main library of NYU - one morning. The boy was scribbling in a leather-bound notebook, three erasers sitting in a perfect line near his right hand and a coffee cup on his left. The cardboard sleeve was stamped with what looked like “ABC” and it appeared someone had doodled all over one side, tiny birds and flowers and the like. Courfeyrac smiled at that, made a mental note to see if there was a coffee shop called “ABC” nearby. He was in a hurry though, only stopping in to return some books for Combeferre before meeting him to work on his Chemistry assignment. Still, he stopped to spare the boy a sidelong glance, taking in the bright orange pants and identically-colored shirt that looked quite lovely against his dark skin. He absentmindedly thought about how adorable the flowers nestled in his hair looked before sliding the books into the return slot and heading out the door.

The next time Courfeyrac saw him, it was purple – lavender, if he were being specific - and although the color of the outfit had changed, nothing else had. It'd been about three days since Courfeyrac had first seen him, and although he didn't like the library all that much - too quiet - he stopped in again. And if he were being honest with himself, it was for no particular reason other than to see if he was there. And he was, still tucked away in his little corner chair by the window, erasers lined up next to him.

And so it went. For three more days after that, Courfeyrac came into the library under the guise of browsing for books or doing homework and there he sat; everyday wearing a long-sleeve shirt and pants in a single, matching color and writing in his notebook.

In an apparent effort to be even creepier than he already was, Courfeyrac grabbed a random book off a shelf, sat himself at a little table near this mystery boy, and watched. Watched the way he wrote in his notebook. Watched the way he paused relatively often to frantically erase before carefully placing the eraser back in its proper spot. Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. Upon reflection, Courfeyrac realized how stalker-ish he seemed, but in the moment he was just...intrigued. Something about this person made Courfeyrac ache to be near them, and so it wasn’t long before he couldn’t stop himself from doing just that.

“Hi, uh, is this seat taken?” he asked just as the boy had finished erasing. Surprised, he looked up, slowly closed his notebook and shook his head. “Cool, cool. I’m Courfeyrac,” he said, plopping down in the open chair across from him.

“Jean Prouvaire, but my friends call me Jehan,” he replied and Courfeyrac was relieved to finally put a name to the face.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said cheekily, extending his hand across the table to him. Jehan stared at it for a few moments, the smile on his lips wavering slightly.

“I have a cold,” he said suddenly - too loudly - warranting some agitated looks from the students nearby. “I-I don’t want to get you sick.” Courfeyrac retreated with an easy smile, but nevertheless Jehan was still looking at him strangely, his eyes darting back and forth from Courfeyrac’s own.

Great. He was uncomfortable. Or freaked. Or any number of feelings one may have when a complete stranger pops out of nowhere like a total jackass to bother you on your perfectly nice, normal day.

Courfeyrac was a jackass.

“So, uh, what are you studying?” He had to say something - he couldn’t just walk away now. He’s sure that would have been a million times more strange, all things considered.

“Oh, I’m not a student.”

“Oh! Are you here with friends?” Courfeyrac asked, glancing around as if he could possibly recognize the friends of this perfect stranger. A stranger who was still looking - just looking - right at him. Normally, Courfeyrac felt pretty confident when it came to talking or flirting with people. He was charming, dammit, and he was definitely not used to this uncertainty he was feeling with Jehan.

“No. I made friends with the people at Library Privileges.” Courfeyrac wasn’t surprised. He probably stared them down until they cracked.  
Courfeyrac really couldn’t blame them. Jehan could probably ask him for the shirt he was wearing and he would give it to him, no questions asked. It was just that...this boy was unlike anyone Courfeyrac had ever met. He knew that from watching him and could practically feel it from just being around him, seeing him up close.

“Well, uh, I was just sitting over there working on-”

“Whittling?” Jehan interrupted, nodding toward the book Courfeyrac had randomly pulled off the shelves. The Art of Whittling, the cover read.

“Um, yes, whittling,” he faltered. “I whittle on the occasion. One might even call me a whittler.”

“Really? Huh, that's interesting. What do you whittle?”

“Oh you know, the usual things. Whistles, mainly. And uh, uh...bears. I've done bears before,” Courfeyrac said with a forced air of nonchalance. He could feel his ears turning pink, but he didn't want to give Jehan the satisfaction of ruining the infamous Courfeyrac Charm so he plowed on.

“Do you think you could whittle me something sometime?” Jehan asked. If Courfeyrac didn't know any better, he'd think Jehan was coming on to him. That could not possibly be right, though. Could it?

“I mean, sure! Absolutely! What would you like?” Courfeyrac was nothing if not committed.

“A bear is fine. It seems to be your specialty after all.”

“You got it,” Courf said, jumping out of his chair, deciding to quit while he was ahead.

“One whittled bear for the boy in teal.” Courfeyrac bowed dramatically, causing Jehan to giggle behind his hand.

“I look forward to seeing your masterpiece of wood.”

Okay, Jehan was definitely coming on to him.

“Do you have a phone number? You know, so I can call when it's finished?” Courfeyrac asked, recognizing his window of opportunity and deciding to hell with it. Before Jehan could answer, someone shh-ed them angrily.

“You know where to find me.” His voice was a whisper now, soft and high.

“Fair enough,” Courfeyrac whispered back, strolled up to the counter, and checked out his book.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slight mention of substance abuse

“Tell me again why we're here at the asscrack of dawn?”

“I told you, Parnasse, I have work this afternoon and a night class, so if you want this thing finished we have to do it now,” Feuilly replied, passing his cigarette to the man standing next to him.

He watched as Montparnasse took a drag, his black hair a stark contrast against the sun that was still hanging low over his shoulder. The morning wind was cool on Feuilly’s skin and he stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. Across the street, an elderly man was opening his bodega, carrying large bundles of fresh flowers out and arranging them in their stand on the sidewalk. Feuilly thought absentmindedly about buying some for Eponine on his way to campus. He turned back to Montparnasse, watching as he dropped his head back and exhaled smoke into the sky.

“Did you fuck with my tattoo?” Feuilly demanded suddenly, reaching over and placing his hand on the side of Montparnasse's exposed neck to get a closer look at the phoenix inked across his throat. He tried to ignore the way his pulse quickened with the touch.

“Yeah, so what? I wanted the wings to be bigger,” Montparnasse replied with a shrug.

“Then why didn't you come to me, you fucking moron? You can tell another artist did that.”

“Fuck off, no you can't.”

“Whatever, let's just do this thing,” Feuilly replied, putting out his cigarette with the toe of his boot and leading Montparnasse through the glass doors to the tattoo shop.

The shop Feuilly worked at part-time was small and a little dingy, but it was clean and booth rental was the cheapest around; plus the owner was cool about Feuilly's weird and sporadic schedule and gave him a key.

Inside, Feuilly led Montparnasse to the back room, turning on the overhead lighting, the fluorescents harsh against his tired eyes. He gestured to the chair for Montparnasse and then set to work getting his machine ready.

Feuilly had left the house earlier than normal that day - the only person awake was Bahorel getting ready for his daily run. When asked where he was off to so early, Feuilly lied and said he had to stop by the library before his first class. If Bahorel (or any of them really, but especially him) knew that he was meeting up with Montparnasse he would have never heard the end of it. Besides, Feuilly was only going to see him this one time. After today, there would be nothing left between them - no loose ends, no unfinished business. Feuilly could finally make a clean break.

“How much more do I owe you?” Montparnasse asked, arranging himself on the table so the calf where the half-completed sugar skull would be easily accessible to Feuilly.

“Seventy-five and I'll fix the bird for you,” Feuilly answered before he turned on some music loud enough to drown out most of the buzz from the needle and set to work. The two sat in companionable silence for a while as Feuilly worked, and for a moment he thought Montparnasse had dozed off.

“Damn! Not so heavy, you prick,” he grunted suddenly, Feuilly apparently hitting a sensitive spot. Feuilly mumbled in response - something that sounded vaguely like “yeah, yeah.” Montparnasse relaxed once more before asking, “So...how's Eponine?”

Feuilly glanced up, but Montparnasse's face was one of careful nonchalance. “Ponine's good, I guess. Working her ass off but that's nothing new.”

“And, uh, Prouvaire? How's he doing?”

“Jehan's fine, too. They've got ‘em on new meds and they've made ‘em kind of quiet lately.”

“And, uh-”

“Everyone's good, Montparnasse,” Feuilly interrupted, getting agitated. “Grantaire, Bahorel, they're all good.”

“What about you then, huh?”

“What about me?”

“Are you good?”

“Parnasse, what is this about? If you wanted to be in our lives, you shouldn't have left. I’ve barely heard from you in...I don’t know how long-”

“Nine months.” Feuilly froze at Montparnasse’s words. “It’s been nine months.”

Feuilly swallowed hard, composing himself for his next words. “You don't get to come around whenever you want pretending to give a fuck. Now I said I'd finish the skull because I'd already started and I stick to my word. And I'll fix your throat because I probably owe you shit, but after this I'm done. _We_ are done.”

Feuilly was careful to keep his tone even, but he couldn’t help the way his voice caught on the last sentence. He hoped Montparnasse didn’t notice.

They finished the sugar skull in silence, Feuilly avoiding Montparnasse’s eyes. He held a mirror near Montparnasse’s leg for him to look at the tattoo and when he indicated his satisfaction, lathered it with some goo and set to work on the phoenix he’d labored over months prior. Their faces were so close but Feuilly refused to be distracted by the lines of his throat or the smell of his cologne. For his part, Feuilly remained silent, but Montparnasse began rambling uselessly, only slightly moving his mouth to avoid interfering with Feuilly’s work. At one point, Feuilly interrupted.

“You’re still hanging around with Babet then, huh?” he cut in, the real question he was asking more than obvious to the other man.

“Yeah, from time to time,” Montparnasse replied, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“When we talked last week you told me you were getting sober,” Feuilly said, keeping his voice steady though on the inside his head was screaming.

“I am, man,” Montparnasse mumbled, closing his eyes. “I’m trying real hard this time.” Feuilly studied Montparnasse’s face for several moments, roaming over all the details he used to know so well. He let his eyes wander farther down, resting on the letters spelled out over his knuckles. “We good?” Parnasse asked after a while, opening his eyes to see why Feuilly wasn’t working.

Feuilly snapped out of it. “Yeah, Mont,” he replied softly. “We’re good.”

About thirty minutes later, both tattoos were complete and Feuilly was packing up his equipment as Montparnasse checked out his ink in the mirror. Feuilly purposefully didn't meet the gaze Montparnasse burned into him as he thanked him for the tattoos and tossed the money onto the chair he'd just vacated.

“Oh and I got you some of that shit we liked so much that one time. Took forever to track down.” Montparnasse added a small baggy of weed on top of the money. Feuilly felt himself smile, just a little.

“Happy birthday, Feu.”


	3. Three

“You guys wouldn't happen to know anyone who can whittle, would you?”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras asked, not bothering to look up from where he was typing away at his computer. Combeferre didn't so much as flinch from where he was taking his psychology notes, his glasses falling precariously close to the tip of his nose.

The three of them were sitting on the floor in Combeferre and Enjolras' dorm room. They'd been studying for two hours now and Courfeyrac was getting antsy, considering he finished his poli-sci homework ages ago and that was his only even remotely interesting subject that semester.

“You know, like...woodworking? Carving little pieces of wood into sculptures?”

“You're asking us if we know someone who whittles?”

“Yes, Combeferre, I am asking if you know someone who whittles. Man, for someone so smart you can be pretty dense sometimes.”

“Why do you need-”

“Actually, I may know someone,” Enjolras interjected, finally looking up from his computer. “I have this friend in my Humanities course who is apparently a great artist - sculptures, I think. I don't know, he may be good at something like that.”

“Great! What's his-”

“But speaking of which, I've been meaning to tell you about him.”

“Enj, what did you say his name-”

“This guy is...incredible. The exact type of person we want joining our cause. His family is from Poland, and his relatives came to New York in the early nineteenth century, passed through Ellis Island and everything! You should have heard him talk about his family. They sunk every last penny they had into an authentic Polish bakery; best babka you've ever tasted.”

“Enjolras, do you even know what babka is?” Combeferre asked, amused.

He was promptly ignored.

“Why do you sound like you’re reading the blurb on the back of a novel?” Courfeyrac asked and Combeferre bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly tell me any of this. I proofread his autobiographical essay in class but that’s besides the point. Now as I was saying...when he was eight, the bakery burned down and his parents were inside. He was orphaned at eight years old and after that, he bounced around from foster home to foster home until he was eighteen and now he's working his own way through college. Isn't that amazing? Could you imagine being completely on your own since you were eight? I can't imagine that...”

“Of course you can't, you have a trust fund,” Courfeyrac said and Combeferre snorted.

“No, you're exactly right, Courfeyrac. I'm a white, upperclass male; I have privileges some people only dream about. Which is why we need someone like Feuilly-”

“AHA! Feuilly!” Courfeyrac said, jotting the name down on his hand.

“As I was saying...” Enjolras looked pointedly at Courfeyrac. “That is exactly why we need someone like Feuilly around. He understands struggles we can't even begin to grasp. He'll be our...Voice of the People!”

“That sounds absolutely ridiculous,” Combeferre muttered.

“So we'll work on the name, but, just, goddammit Ferre could you just be in this with me?”

“I am, I am! I'm in this,” he replied, shutting his psychology book to prove just how “in this” he was. Combeferre was a good friend, after all, even when Enjolras went on his crazy tangents. Before graduation, the three of them had vowed to found a social justice group once they got to university. Now, they weren’t even two months into their Freshmen year and Enjolras was already losing his mind over being ‘behind schedule.’ Courfeyrac was as passionate and interested as Enjolras was - truly, he was - but right now, he was feeling some passion in...other areas.

“Good, now as I was saying...”

Courfeyrac didn't hear anything Enjolras said after that because he was packing his things and sprinting out the door, ignoring the way Enjolras was calling his name behind him.

\---

“A beautiful rose for a beautiful woman,” Courfeyrac said, presenting the flower to the woman sitting behind the counter at the Registrar's Office. Her name was Dorothy Perkins, a plump, black woman in her mid-fifties whom Courfeyrac had befriended in an effort to avoid the early morning classes Freshmen were normally stuck with. Now, the two of them had weekly catch-up sessions over tea. Shaking her head, Dorothy took the rose from Courf's fingers, feigning indifference.

“What is it this time Courfeyrac?” she asked, taking a pair of scissors and snipping the stem off the rose before tucking it into her hair.

“I need you to look up a student's schedule for me.”

“I'm not allowed to do that, Courfeyrac, we've been through this.”

“This time it's different, I swear!”

“You followed a young man around to every single one of his classes for three days.”

“It was just Enjolras! It was a social experiment!”

“The answer is no.”

Desperate, Courfeyrac flung himself over the counter, knocking papers and clipboards and mouse pads off the desk in the process. He spun Dorothy around in her chair and knelt on the ground before her, stuck his bottom lip out and...pouted.

“Pleeeeeease, Dorothy! Please, please, please! I'm trying to woo a boy!”

She thought about it for a minute, absentmindedly fingering the rose in her hair. Courfeyrac put his hands in front of him as if praying, and Dorothy took in his pathetic appearance before cracking.

“Okay, okay, I'll do it! But first, pick up the stuff you just knocked off my desk,” she conceded. “And tuck your shirt in.”

“Dorothy, you absolute angel!” Courfeyrac said, kissed her cheek and did as he was told.


	4. Four

“I got fifteen minutes, what’d you need to talk to me about?” Feuilly asked, taking a seat on the stoop next to Jehan. They were sitting in the alley adjacent to the Imperial Palace, the Chinese restaurant Feuilly bussed at. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, offering the pack to Jehan, who declined.

“Nothing specific, I was just ‘round and thought I’d stop by,” Jehan replied, refusing to meet his eyes. Feuilly scrutinized Jehan closely, taking in his delicate features that, without him noticing, had somehow become gaunt and angular. His long hair, which was normally done in elegant twists and intricate plaits, was tossed haphazardly atop his head.

“Jehan...don’t bullshit a bullshitter. What’s wrong with you?”

“What? Nothing, why?”

“You’ve been acting weird lately. You seem...I don’t know, sad? Quiet.”

“I’m fine, really. It’s just…” Jehan trailed off after that, looking down at his canvas shoes that he kept immaculately white only by scrubbing them daily with bleach, a feat that must become exhausting when one lives in New York City.

“It’s just what?”

“I can’t write,” he said, his face crumpling in barely-suppressed agony.

“What do you mean you can’t write? I see you writing in your journal all the time.”

“I erase it. Everything I write, I erase. It’s just...it’s not perfect. It’s not perfect and I have to erase and erase and erase and no matter how many times I start over it’s never perfect. It has to be perfect, Feu, or else-” He didn’t finish but his message was clear to Feuilly.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since I started the new meds…”

“What the hell, Jehan? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You are not a bother. And anyway so what, we’ll get you new medicine and try again. No harm done.”

“No, really, it’s okay. I should finish this script. They’re so expensive.”

“Listen to me,” Feuilly said, turning Jehan’s head so he’d look him in the eye. “If this medicine is going to help you be happy, we don’t care how much it is, do you understand?”

Jehan nodded, giving Feuilly a small smile that made his heart ache.

“Good. Now, how’s that new job of yours? At the, uh, at the bookstore? How’s that going?”

“They fired me.”

“What? Fired you? When?”

“Like three weeks ago…”

“For what?!”

“Well, I, uh, when I would stack the books or ya know, put them back on the shelves I’d take too long. But, Feu, they were all messed up. I couldn’t leave them all crooked, could I? I just...they said I was ‘bad for productivity.’”

“‘Bad for productivity?’ What kind of productivity can a bookstore even have? No one even reads books anymore! That’s a load of bullshit!”

“I’ll just find a new job.”

“You’re right. You don’t want to work for those pricks anyway,” he commented, sated.

The two sat in silence for a while, Feuilly smoking his cigarette and Jehan scratching the inside of his palm rhythmically, something he did when he was anxious. The spicy smell of ginger and teriyaki made its way into the alley, making Feuilly's stomach growl as he idly picked at a fresh stain on the thigh of his black slacks. A wave of exhaustion rolled over Feuilly as he sat listening to the sounds of the city. Ever since seeing Montparnasse that morning, Feuilly could think of nothing else. His brain conjured up endless images of him, and Feuilly had been entranced by his face all day - the way it looked when he was laughing, or crying, or fucking. These thoughts drained Feuilly completely, emptying him of any energy he may have had left for the day.

He was tired. Tired of bills, tired of working three jobs, tired of people dying-

“Wait a minute,” he said suddenly, turning on Jehan suspiciously. “Where have you been going all those hours you were supposedly at work? And you were good for bills last month, where’d you get the money if you were fired?”

“I’ve been hanging out at the library and I just sold some of my stuff, that’s all.”

“Sold your stuff? What for? You know we’d cover you! What the hell did you sell?”

“Things here and there. Some of my old poetry books, the rare editions, they were worth more than I thought they’d be. Funny though, the bookstore fired me right after I sold them to 'em."

“Bastards,” Feuilly said, rubbing his hand through his already messy red hair. “I see now why you didn't go to Eponine with this, she'd have your neck by now.”

Jehan laughed a little at that, sliding the half-ashed cigarette from Feuilly's fingers and placing it between his lips. In response, he threw his arm around Jehan and kissed the side of his head.

“Oh, while I have you here...next month-” Jehan began but Feuilly knew exactly where the sentence was ending.

“I know.”

“Eponine’s gonna need us.”

“I know.”

“I think we should have a family meeting. Without her, I mean.”

Feuilly nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “You know what I’ve learned from this?” he asked.

“What?”

“I don’t spend enough time in the library.”


	5. Five

According to his schedule, Feuilly had a studio period from 4:00 to 7:00 that Courfeyrac had decided would be best for interruption. Or at least, less inconvenient.

“Excuse me, I'm looking for a Feuilly? Feuilly? Is there a Feuilly in here?” Courfeyrac called, reading off the paper Dorothy had printed off for him.

He looked up from the paper to find twenty or so odd students paused in the middle of painting or sculpting or sketching, all eyes fixated on him.

“Uh...I'm Feuilly?” came a deep voice from the back of the room.

“Excellent! Carry on, you gorgeous artists!” Courfeyrac said before making his way over to where Feuilly was standing, hands frozen in the process of molding clay into a shape that was not formed into anything remotely recognizable quite yet.

Courfeyrac wasn't sure what he was expecting when Enjolras had described Feuilly but it wasn't the man standing in front of him. He had pale skin, a permanent scowl, and thin eyes that refused look at one thing for too long. He was wearing a black t-shirt, the long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing slender arms covered almost entirely with black tattoos.

“Hi Feuilly, I'm Courfeyrac,” he said, sticking out his hand in greeting. Feuilly looked at Courfeyrac properly, using the back of his hand to push back his ginger hair from where it had fallen messily into his eyes, smearing a bit of clay above his eyebrow in the process.

“I'd shake your hand but...” Feuilly replied, sticking out his clay covered hand in explanation.

“I don't mind!” Courfeyrac replied, grabbing Feuilly's hand in both of his and shaking it enthusiastically. “Good to meet you, sir! I'm a friend of Enjolras!”

“Who?” Feuilly asked, looking more and more wary by the second. Dammit, Enjolras.

“Uh, blond babe in your Humanities course? He probably talked your ear off about 'taking down the one percent,' he's big into that lately...”

“Oh, right, of course. Sorry, I know Enjolras,” Feuilly said, wiping his hands off on the clean towel he pulled from his backpack. “What can I do for you, Courfeyrac?”

“I'd like to commission a piece from you, if that's okay.” At the word “commission,” twenty broke, college student heads snapped to attention as if with the right amount of prodding, Courfeyrac would choose them to commission a piece from instead.

“Let's, uh, take this outside, yeah? I need a smoke, anyway,” Feuilly said, leading Courfeyrac out a side door that lead to concrete steps. Courfeyrac watched as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and place one between his chapped lips. “Hm?” he mumbled, offering the pack to Courfeyrac, who declined.

“So, would you be interested? In a commission, I mean?” Courfeyrac asked and Feuilly leaned against the metal railing along the stairs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Depends on what you're wanting,” he answered.

“Well, Enjolras mentioned that perhaps you could be good at whittling?”

“Whittling?” Feuilly scowled, pulling his eyebrows even closer together than they normally sat. He took off the ratty, blue baseball cap he was wearing and repositioned it low on the base of his skull. “What makes Enjolras think I know anything about whittling?”

“Uh, I'm...so you can't?” Courfeyrac asked, almost embarrassed at this ridiculous exchange. This was all Enjolras' fault.

“Nah, I mean I probably could. What are you wanting?”

“A bear.”

“Just...any kind? Big? Small?”

“Doesn't matter! So you'll do it?”

“Uh...yeah, sure. I'll give it a go.”

“Yes! Oh my gosh, thank you thank you thank you!” Courfeyrac squealed, reaching forward and taking Feuilly's hand in his and shaking it almost violently. “You see, I'm trying to woo the most beautiful boy in the world and it's a long story but I need to whittle this person a bear but I have zero artistic talent in that way - I do films, ya see - so I need you to do it.”

“Right...” Feuilly drawled and Courfeyrac blushed a little at his over-share but Feuilly was smiling a little so it wasn't so bad. “How much were you thinking?”

“Um, well, I've never commissioned before so I was thinking...fifty...or seventy-five?”

“Woah, dude,” Feuilly said, his eyebrows at his hairline. “Fifty is...plenty. That's great, actually. Thank you.”

“No! Thank you! I'm sure you must be busy so I really appreciate this.”

“No problem, man. But, listen, I gotta go. Why don't you meet me here next Thursday? I'll have it done by then. Cool?”

“Totally cool!” Courfeyrac replied and Feuilly laughed.

“I hope you get your guy!” he called over his shoulder and Courfeyrac decided he liked this Feuilly. He liked this Feuilly very much.


	6. Six

“Sorry I'm late guys, I got caught up at the studio,” Feuilly explained as he squeezed through the doorway, arms chalk-full of art supplies. Grantaire hopped off the countertop and relieved him of some of the weight and they deposited the bulk of it on the living room floor. “I'll pick it up after bills, Ep,” Feuilly said before Eponine could complain of the mess, planting a kiss to her temple.

She was sitting around their tiny kitchen table still in her work clothes from the restaurant and dark hair piled high in a messy knot on top of her head, as she ripped open envelope after envelope. Twice a month, the five of them gathered together and pooled their money to pay bills, of which there were plenty. It stressed Eponine out to no end and the boys tried to keep it light, though none of them could say they were without their fair share of worries. It was hard to make do. Even with five of them sharing a house barely suited for three and working enough jobs to suit twelve, every month they'd hold their breath and hope they've made enough to last another one.

“What held you up?” Jehan asked, pulling out an envelope from the kitchen drawer and emptying the contents onto the table. He proceeded to lay each bill onto the formica tabletop, smoothing the wrinkles and separating them into piles by value.

“Empty your pockets, gents!” Eponine called and the boys did as they were told, pulling out their wallets or plastic bags or removing their shoes in Grantaire's case.

“Some guy wants to commission a piece from me,” Feuilly said, still very much confused by the arrangement that transpired between him and this Courfeyrac character.

“Well fuck me! That's awesome Feu,” Grantaire replied as Bahorel clamped Feuilly on the shoulders and gave him a tight squeeze. “What's he want?”

Feuilly grabbed a chair and dragged it across the floor to the window, propping it open with the piece of wood they kept on the sill so he could smoke his cigarette out of it.

“He was a weird dude,” he said, flicking his lighter repeatedly to no avail. “He wants me to whittle a bear for him.”

In response, Jehan choked on the swig of beer he’d just taken. Feuilly looked at him questioningly, but Jehan dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“So what are we talking? A grizzly?” Grantaire asked, laughing, as he pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit Feuilly's cigarette for him.

“A polar bear, maybe?” Eponine added without looking up from where she was typing in numbers into an ancient calculator.

“A koala, perhaps!” Bahorel chimed in. He had hopped up on the kitchen counter, his bare feet dangling in the air, and was attempting to solve Feuilly’s Rubix Cube.

“He didn't specify. Apparently he's trying to woo “the most beautiful boy in the entire world.”

“How much is the most beautiful boy in the world worth ‘cause we're short on rent and electric,” Eponine muttered, rubbing her hands over her face.

“Are you sure? Did you recount it?”

“Jehan counted it four times.”

“It's okay, Ep,” Grantaire said, wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind and kissing the top of her head. “We'll figure something out; we always do.”

“I'm about two hundred short on paying for that car from Ji up in Koreatown,” Bahorel added, holding a cigarette to Eponine's lips knowing she'd need a stress-smoke. Jehan reached out and lit it for her before she had to ask. “I'm not allowed to fuck with it until I've made the full payment, but if we could somehow scrounge that two-hundred up, I can strip it for parts. I won't make as much as I would fixin' it up to sell, but it should be enough for rent.”

“This dude is paying me fifty for the bear,” Feuilly said around his cigarette. “And I can see if I can get some sessions in before the week's up.”

“That could work,” Eponine said as she began putting their money back inside the can.

“If not we can always dip into the Coffee Table Fund,” Feuilly suggested.

“NO!” everyone replied loudly and in unison.

The Coffee Table Fund was an accumulation of all the money the five of them raised for Feuilly's university fees. Feuilly was at NYU on scholarship, but even then it wasn't enough to pay for all the extra shit like books and studio fees. Any extra cash they managed to scrounge together after bills were paid went straight to the coffee table, where they hid the bills inside the pages of Grantaire's books. Together, they'd managed to save close to $6,000, mostly due to the glorious couple of months that Grantaire had gotten a job tending bar at an ultra-swanky club in uptown Manhattan where rich business men took women, tipping the lowly waitstaff in outrageous amounts hoping to impress their dates enough to take them home. At the same time Eponine had taken a job at a chain sports bar and grill where she was forced to wear the skin-tight uniform and men put their hands on her without permission. Their commutes were horrible but they were making the best money any of them had ever seen so it was sort of worth it for a while.

“We'll figure it out,” Eponine said matter-of-factly, getting up from the table and heading to her room. “Bahorel, you have dinner tonight?”

“Got it, chief!”

“Wait a minute,” Grantaire muttered. “Ep, you aren’t working at the laundromat tonight?”

“No, I’m off. Why?”

“Well if I'm reading correctly...” he said, peering at the work calendar tacked up on the refrigerator. “I'm off from the bar tonight and Feuilly had a day shift at the Palace today.”

“You mean...”

“None of us are working graveyard?” Eponine asked, sounding like this news was too good to be true.

“Well, well, well...Happy fuckin' birthday Feuilly!"


	7. Seven

When Courfeyrac arrived back to his dorm room, he found Combeferre and Enjolras seated on the edge of his bed playing BioShock on Combeferre’s Xbox. Well, Combeferre was playing and Enjolras was annoyingly coaching him on the side. There was a box of half-eaten pizza on the bed behind them and Courfeyrac grabbed a slice before plopping himself down in his bean bag.

“Welp, Enjolras, I could kiss you,” he said.

“Please don’t,” Enjolras said, his eyes never leaving the television screen. “You’re going to die, Ferre. I told you that isn’t the right-”

“Dammit!” Combeferre cursed, tossing the controller to Enjolras in frustration. “So, how’d the wooing go?”

“Oh, my dear friend,” Courfeyrac began dramatically. He took a bite of pizza before continuing. “The wooing is merely in the beginning stages. However, Enjolras’s friend came through for us.”

“Oh, so you met Feuilly?!” Enjolras asked, pausing the game to give Courfeyrac his full attention. “How was he? Did he say anything about me?”

Courfeyrac exchanged a look with Combeferre. His eyes were telling Courfeyrac to just leave it alone, but that was obviously not happening. “He did actually. He said when he looks at you...he feels whole again. Like your hair is the only sunshine he needs. Like your eyes are the ocean and the moon all at the same-”

Courfeyrac was cut off by a pillow to the face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Enjolras huffed. He rolled his eyes but a blush was slowly creeping on his cheeks.

“It’s okay to have a crush, Enj,” Combeferre said kindly, giving Courfeyrac a pointed look.

“I do not have a crush! I do not have time for crushes or anything of the sort. And I especially won’t have time when we start up our group-”

“What group?” All three boys turned to see Marius, who had apparently come in without anyone noticing. His pale skin was flushed from the cold and his hair was swept messily across his forehead.

“Enjolras wants to start a political revolution,” Courfeyrac replied cheekily. “Wanna join?”

At that, Enjolras huffed, presumably annoyed at Courfeyrac for inviting Marius along or patronizing his cause or both. The thing was, Marius could sometimes be a little bit like a lost puppy for whom Enjolras had no patience.

When the three of them - Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre - all decided to attend NYU, Courfeyrac wanted to take his chances with a random roommate. College for him was all about making new friends and having new experiences and he knew he would do neither if he let himself stay in the comfortable bubble that was their friendship.

It was move-in day, and Enjolras and Combeferre had just left Courfeyrac’s dorm to begin unpacking their own things. For his part, Courfeyrac stayed behind to figure out how he was going to fit all of his clothes in the offensively small closet provided to him. He had only his scarf collection left to worry about when there was a knock on the door, causing Courfeyrac to squeal excitedly.

“Hi! Uh, I’m, uh…” he started, his cheeks turning red almost instantly as Courfeyrac watched in fond amusement. The boy in front of him was tall and broad, and his sandy hair was too long, falling in his eyes. He flicked his head to the side, attempting to move his hair from his face, as his hands were full of luggage. He had a kind face and kind eyes and Courfeyrac liked him already. “I’m your roommate, I think. Uh, I’m sleeping with you. I mean, not like that! I just mean-”

“I’m Courfeyrac,” he interrupted, deciding to let him off the hook. The boy looked instantly relieved.

“I'm Marius Pontmercy.”

Courfeyrac grinned in response. He could tell from his nervous twitch and his collared shirt that Marius was rather vanilla. Inexperienced. Innocent.

Courfeyrac couldn't wait to corrupt him.

“Something tells me you and I are going to have a lot of fun together, Marius Pontmercy.”

Courfeyrac smiled at the memory. Since then, Marius had become one of Courfeyrac’s good friends. He was still pretty vanilla, but Courfeyrac was working on that.

“I am not planning a revolution,” Enjolras said, sounding extremely put-upon. “I simply want to start a club or a group. You know, for activists - those who want to fight for social justice. I'm picturing rallies and protests. Maybe some fundraising for certain causes. I think this school needs something like that.”

“Wow! I think that sounds like a great idea, Enjolras!” Marius said excitedly, completely oblivious to Enjolras’ disdain for him. “I’d love to join once you get it going!”

“Great,” Enjolras replied through gritted teeth. “I’ll add you to the list.”

“Awesome! Thanks so much!” Marius said. “Um, Courf, could I, uh, talk to you for a minute? Privately?”

“I like the sound of that,” Courfeyrac giggled cheekily, following Marius into his side of the dorm room. “What is it, my dear?”  
Marius’ ears go pink at the pet name, something Courfeyrac found adorable.

“So, I met someone. A girl.”

“Do tell!” Courfeyrac replied quickly. He hopped onto Marius’ bed and crisscrossed his legs.

“Well...she’s beautiful and she’s a dancer.”

“Oooooh la la. What’s her name?”

“I, uh, don’t know, actually,” Marius answered, sheepishly running his hand over the back of his neck.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Well...we didn’t really...talk per se.”

“I'm not following.”

“Well I saw her on the train.”

Courfeyrac paused waiting for Marius to continue. When he didn’t, Courfeyrac prompted anxiously, “And?”

“And she smiled at me!”

“She smiled at you.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t speak to her?”

“No.”

Courfeyrac was silent for a moment, contemplating this. He was trying to decide how to tell Marius that he was a dumbass...in the nicest way possible. “Marius, there are millions of people in this city. How do you suppose you’re ever going to see this girl again?”

Marius’ face fell at Courfeyrac’s words and he sighed dejectedly. “I guess you’re right.”

He sounded so sad, and Courfeyrac couldn’t possibly allow that. “Well now, honey, sit down,” he said patting the bed beside him. “You said she was a dancer? How do you know that?”

“Well she had ballet shoes tied to her backpack,” Marius said. “Oh! And her backpack said Julliard on it!”

Courfeyrac slapped his knees excitedly. “Well there you go! She’s a Julliard gal!”

“So what does that mean? I just hang out there and hope I see her one day…?”

“Marius,” Courfeyrac said seriously, clasping his hand on Marius’ shoulder. “No one ever said love was easy.”


	8. Eight

“Feuilly, we really don’t need to be spending your birthday this way,” Jehan said for the millionth time since Feuilly told the others what he wanted to do. “Really, this is supposed to be your day and – ”

“Jehan, I love you, but you gotta shut up,” Feuilly hissed through his teeth. “Ep, how’s it coming?” he said, looking up as he gripped tightly to Eponine’s boot-clad foot. He and Bahorel each had a foot, hoisting Eponine in the air so she could reach the back window of the Black Orchid Bookshop.

“I think I just about - ” she cut herself off, asking, “Jehan, you’re sure this place doesn’t have an alarm?”

“I’m sure,” he replied. “There’s fake cameras on the building though. The owner thinks it’s enough of a deterrent, which is code for, ‘we’re too cheap to actually buy a security system.’”

“Got it!” Eponine whisper-yelled, stuffing the screwdriver she was using to rig the window open into her back pocket. Slowly, she lifted the window frame from its beading. “Now, lift me a little higher.”

Feuilly and Bahorel did as they were told, and Eponine not-so-gracefully tumbled head first into the bookshop. A second later, she was leaning out, her hands outstretched to Jehan.

“Come on Prouvaire, up you go,” Feuilly smiled, nodding his head in Eponine’s direction. “Grantaire, do you have the bag?”

Grantaire, who was supposed to be the lookout, startled from where he was perched against the side of the building, doodling in the tiny sketchbook he always carried with him. His brows were furrowed in concentration and a cigarette sat between his lips, the ember burning away. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Here.” He tossed the bag to Bahorel who then draped it over Jehan’s shoulder, before he and Feuilly hoisted him up in similar fashion.

While Eponine and Jehan were inside, Grantaire wandered over, stuffing the sketchbook into his back pocket. The three stood together, the sounds of Eponine and Jehan’s whispers and shuffling floating down through the open window. It made Feuilly smile to himself.

“Did you hear from him today?” Grantaire asked, and neither Feuilly nor Bahorel had to ask to know who he was talking about. The smile on Feuilly’s lips fell slowly as he looked away from Grantaire’s burning gaze.

“Yeah, actually,” Feuilly answered, not bothering to lie. They would have known the truth anyway. “I gave him a touch up.”

“That was just an excuse to see you today, yanno,” Bahorel murmured, giving Feuilly a thoughtful look.

“Yeah, well,” was all Feuilly said in return.

“PST!” The three of them looked up at Jehan, his eyes wild and gleeful. “They’re all still here!”

“That’s awesome, love,” Bahorel said, grinning up at Jehan. “Toss the bag and then we’ll get you down.”

\---

  
“Hm, stolen literature is somehow more poignant,” Bahorel teased a while later as Grantaire finished reading his passage from Jehan’s first edition of Carl Sandburg’s Chicago Poems.

“Reclaimed literature, Baz, reclaimed,” Feuilly replied around a cloud of smoke. The five of them were seated in the living room around the coffee table, passing around Jehan’s books and taking turns reading passages aloud to one another. The room was dim, the only light coming from some old Christmas bulbs strung up haphazardly on one wall and the television. In the background, an infomercial for an elliptical is playing on mute. At one point, Eponine rolled a blunt, emptying out a cigar and deftly refilling it with weed.

“Where did you say you got this again?” Grantaire asked absentmindedly, taking a large inhale from the blunt before passing it to Jehan.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Feuilly lied. “A client gave it to me today.” It was the weed Montparnasse had given him. The smell reminded him of the last time he’d smoked it, curled around Montparnasse in Feuilly’s tiny bedroom, the summer heat feeling good against their skin as it shone in through the open window.

It was July, one of those rare times where Montparnasse didn’t immediately rush out after they were done fucking. Feuilly was shocked when a whole hour passed and Montparnasse had yet to slip out of bed to pull his clothes on. He laid there relishing in the moment - his ear resting against Montparnasse’s heartbeat - more content than he'd ever felt.

Montparnasse’s voice was soft and rumbled low in his chest as he spoke, his volume just above a whisper.

“It's you and me, you know,” he said. Feuilly could feel Montparnasse’s heart quicken where his cheek was pressed against his bare chest. The words fell on Feuilly’s ear with such a weight that he knew Montparnasse had just made an insurmountable confession.

It was an ‘I love you.’

It was Montparnasse’s ‘I love you.’

Feuilly closed his eyes, willing himself not to get too emotional. He exhaled slowly and said, simply, “I know.”

Montparnasse said nothing in return, but it wasn't long before his heart slowed down to a strong, steady beat.

Later that night, after everyone had one by one trickled off into their bedrooms, Feuilly was tucked away in his bed trying desperately to keep his mind on, well, anything other than him and them and that memory. He closed his eyes, willing his brain to conjure any image other than that of tattooed skin and bloodshot eyes and –

“Are you asleep?” Jehan’s voice came from the other side of the door, soft and sweet with fatigue. He pushed the door open and peered inside, squinting in what little light the moon was providing them. “Can I come in?”

Feuilly mumbled his permission, scooting over in his bed to give Jehan room to lie next to him. “I have your birthday present.”

“Jehan you –”

“Before you fuss, just open it,” Jehan interrupted, handing over a small, rectangular item wrapped in newspaper that Grantaire had clearly doodled all over in Sharpie. Feuilly smiled at the cartoons: little balloons, tiny cupcakes with candles poking out of them, the occasional dick. Feuilly unwrapped the gift as Jehan watched almost nervously.

It was Jehan’s first edition copy of Bukowski’s, Love is a Dog from Hell. “I got all of these books from my mother before she died. She used to read them to me over and over when I was a kid. It’s why I love poetry so much. This book was one of her favorites and mine too. But now I think it needs to live in a different heart for a while.”

Feuilly swallowed hard. “Thank you, Prouvaire,” he practically whispered.

“Happy birthday,” Jehan said, leaning over to kiss Feuilly on the cheek. “And thank you. For everything.”

Jehan left the room, shutting Feuilly’s door with a gentle click. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Feuilly flipped through the book, his eyes scanning the pages but not really registering any of it.

Until.

His eyes landed on a passage, carefully underlined in red pen. It was the only page of the book that had been written on. The underlined words read:

“I drive around the streets  
an inch away from weeping,  
ashamed of my sentimentality and  
possible love.”


End file.
